The train is Coming
by LandLegs
Summary: Wesley Herseth awakes after a night of drinking in a warehouse, beaten and bloody. Left with only a wallet in his pocket that belongs to one Wesley Holmes. That's his name but it isn't him. His Brothers disagree. ( ON HOLD!) Might Delete. I'm Not sure. But for now, it's on Hold.


**Chapter one: The ticket**

 _( Sherlock does not belong to me, this is just for fun!)_

" This means I'm talking." And this doesn't.

With his cheek plastered to cold concrete and a splitting headache wreaking havoc in his head, wesley groaned and refused to move. Only seconds later to be pulled from his rather pathetic spot on the floor up and rearranging him into a sitting position by rough hands. Dear god, he whined internally. The rather rushed movement made him want to spill his stomach on whatever or whoever. If he hadn't almost passed out seconds after the sensation settled he was would have vindictively thought, serves you right for moving a drunk.

" Hey, Kid." Gruffed a voice.

Laying noodle like in what he believed to be a man's grasp, he scrunched his face and grunted weakly. "Wha-" He heard himself slur.

" You need to stay awake." He said, before patting his hand on wesley's cheek. " Open your eyes." He demanded.

Weakly and very reluctantly, Wesley managed to make his eyelids move and was in turn thankful for the fact it was dark wherever he was. Squinting and blinking slowly to get rid of the blur from his eyes, he managed to spot the man who pulled him so roughly from the floor. In his rather dazed state he thought the man looked like a ship captain and was that an accent he heard?

The mans scraggly beard, deeply ingrained wrinkles and watery blue almost silver eyes made his nose conjure the smell of salt water. Turning his gaze to his surroundings, Wesley ignored the man for a moment and focused on what he could see.

He noticed shipping containers and quickly realized he was in a warehouse. And holy hell how did he get here! Dumbfounded he gazed at the large red, blue, and grey metal containers around him bewildered .

What was the last thing he remembered, he questioned himself. Before he could ponder too much on it he was brought back to attention by a rough hand guiding his head back around to what he quickly dubbed as the captain.

" Look here kid." Captain rumbled worriedly. " You're bleeding and must have hit your head on something." With strength he didn't know he had he lifted his hand up and with questing fingers proceeded to prod at the left side of his head that captain's eyes kept flickering too.

Now, despite the fact that he found some strength to reach his hand to his own head didn't mean he had exact control to gently search for this head wound. Adrenaline ruining such tact he ended up poking a little too hard, jerking and dropping his hand quickly as a pounding force in his head reared back with ugly vengeance before turning to his side and gagging and somehow managing to hold back his stomach acid.

Next time he didn't think he'd be so lucky.

" Bloody hell." Captain cursed. Shifting his hold on him as he used his left hand to hold him up and his right to search his jacket pocket. " Hold on, I'm gonna call for an ambulance."

Before Captain got to put the phone up to his ear, Wesley grabbed him by the arm, he had no other choice then. He'd have to use it.

" Sleep." He croaked.

And captain slumped, the cell phone tumbling from his hands and smacking into the concrete. The captains left hand falling away from his back had him nearly tipping backwards only Stabilizing himself with his bambi arms, that shook underneath his weight.

Which wasn't alot he amended, his thin lanky arms held very little meat and the rest of his body didn't either.

His friends joked it was a curse he called it genetics.

Groaning with his eyes tightly closed and he began to weakly throw up what little he had in his stomach to begin with. Never again, he vowed to himself, he'd rather remain the designated driver forever.

Dragging himself up off the ground was harder than he initially thought and he ended up losing his breath as a searing pain stabbed mockingly in his chest. And studying his arms for a good moment he noticed splotches of bruising and cuts.

If this was what was going to happen after drinking with the guys, he'd welcome the title of designated driver especially if he was going to awaken in unknown locations feeling as if he had gotten into a brawl with a biker gang.

He pushed it away for now and concentrated on his main goal which was getting to his feet. Painstakingly he did just that, catching himself on the cold edge of a dull red shipping container. Stable for a moment he glanced at who he nicknamed captain and was unsurprised to notice that he was actually a security guard. The man's security guard patch glaring up at him now.

Cringing, Wesley, looked down at the mans dropped phone and considered it for a moment before bending down with shallow breaths and scooping the phone off the ground and rightenting himself quickly. Holding for a moment until the sharp pain in his chest faded and only then did he start to fiddle with the rather low tech cell phone.

He dialed in his college roommates number and hit the send button. The phone to his ear now, awaiting with a mouth full of curses ready to spew and be crude.

When an almost silent click occurred and a familiar voice sounded from the phone.

" Hell-" Wesley cut him off. " Justin, what the fuck man!"

Leaning against the cold container he shouted, " I've woken up in a fucking warehouse and got the shit kicked out of me."

Justin shouted," Shit, who the fuck is this!?"

Wesley glared, " Dude, you just fucking left-." He paused, taking it all in before he took a deep breath and counted to three . " Justin, it's me wesley."

There was pause over the phone. And he felt the odd curl of dread in his stomach that wasn't from his hangover or possible concussion.

He heard justin take a deep breath over the line. " Look man, I don't know any wesley."

Wesley blinked slowly just then, his hand starting to shake. " That ain't funny justin." he murmured breathlessly.

His unoccupied hand twisted in his red sweater, strangling the fabric.

There was another pause and this time he awaited with bated breath. " Is this a prank call?" justin skeptically asked. Laughter filled the other end of the line and it burned in wesley's stomach making him want to squirm. Instead he shifted his weight and looked up to stare at the beams of the warehouse ceiling.

" Dude, You almost got me!" Laughed justin again. " Who set this up, Was it-."

Justin's voice was cut off with a simple click of the key pad.

And then there was that heavy burning building in his eyes and he refused to blink as he stood heavily against the container. The phone fell loose of his grip smacking and skating across the concret.

" No." He heavily choked out.

Taking a few shallows breaths and dammit he blinked. A few tears slipping down his cheeks and all the while burning like fire.

After a quick glance to make sure that Captain was still asleep, wesley managed to find his way out of the shipping container maze and luckily wasn't too blinded as it was overcast outside.

And he might not have just imagined the scent of salt water he thought numbly, staring at the turbulent water nauseously.

Turning his eyes away and staring at the warehouse he just escaped. Painted with big dull yellow words was, _Brighton Warehouse,_ and just below that was a number 3. He had never heard of a town called Brighton and that's what he assumed it to be from the very obvious name choice. Plue he prided himself in at least knowing most of the ones in California since he drove around a lot and explored most of California itself. So where was he! And most importantly why did his best friend NOT know who he was, they had lived together for almost four years.

He had no family but Justin and he didn't even know it. Wesley told him everything, from his lack of family, to his hacker days and even his little ability.

And for him not to know him, to recognize his own voice. He felt the air just evaporate from his lungs.

Shaking his head he tried not to getting into such dark thoughts, turning away and deciding to walk towards the road and maybe find a bus stop or he might even hitchhike. He honestly didn't care anymore, his head was playing the bongo's and his chest burned with any deep breath he took and his wrist might have been swelling he didn't know anymore. Nothing was making sense and right now he was numb.

He had actually ended up finding a train station, and it had been after two miles of walking and a 15 minute drive in which he hitchhiked. Wesley just scowled as he noticed the odd and sparingly amount of people staring at him as he staggered into the small station. He hopped they weren't staring at the contrasting red stain on his red sweater, his head had started bleeding halfway here and so he had no choice but to wipe it away with the use of his sweater.

It wouldn't do to get stopped now.

As he got closer to the ticket counter it occurred to him that he needed money. This concussion was making him stupid, he thought bemused. He started to rifle through his pockets and felt a swell of relief when he pulled out his black wallet. He flipped it open and found some cash and his cards.

Stumbling to the counter where a rather worried looking woman sat behind glass. Ignoring her distressed look at him. Whether it was because of his physical injuries or appearance he didn't really care to know. He pulled out his debit card and handed it to her underneath the small glass opening, " One ticket to the nearest city."

When his card didn't move from it's place on the counter, he looked up and eyed the one woman once again. She seemed stumped, like she didn't know whether to call the police, the ambulance or just process his request. " Please." He stressed. Hoping to get an act of pity from the woman.

She notably swallowed, gave a thin smile that he assumed she thought was comforting but in fact just reminded him of Professor Umbridge from Harry Potter. Least to say it was irksome.

" Of course." She said at last, reaching for the card and proceeded to poke at her monitor. " May I see your Identification Sir."

It was at this moment that he noticed her accent, sounded british. He mused to himself while he proceeded to flip his wallet open again and pulled what he thought to be his ID. The woman looked at it, glanced at him and down at it again. He probably should have been more suspicious about showing her his ID but he was honestly just tired and wanted to get on the train as fast as possible.

The woman nodded to herself and handed back his card while the sound of a printing machine started. The woman turned collected what was printed and smiled thinly again before slipping his ticket in the small glass opening to him and said politely.

" One ticket to London, Mr. Wesley Holmes." She furrowed her eyebrows at his stunned expression but kept her thin smile in place, adding.

" Have a good trip."


End file.
